by Jane Porter
It’s going to be fine, I repeat. Nathan and I have just hit a little rough patch. That’s normal, it happens to all couples, even couples like us.
Maybe that’s why I’m panicking.
Nathan and I never used to have problems. Nathan has been my godsend.
Life before Nathan was a bitch. I might look like All That now, but it’s something I’ve worked for, something I still work for, and I can’t imagine my life without him.
Truthfully, I never thought my life would turn out like this. Growing up was a nightmare—you don’t want to know all the sordid details—but despite the disaster at home, I excelled in school.
I did the whole cheerleader/homecoming court/student body thing in high school before spending four years as an Alpha Beta Pi at USC.
I first met Nathan (Nathan Charles Young III) while we were both undergrads when we were set up for a fraternity/sorority dance. I was a sophomore and he was a fifth-year senior, as he’d redshirted for the football team. Move ahead sixteen years and you have us today living in our lovely home in the Pacific Northwest with three gorgeous girls—ten-year-old Jemma, seven-year-old Brooke, and four-year-old Tori.
Despite once having an interesting career in PR and communications, I’m now a full-time mom by choice. Nathan and I agreed from the beginning that I’d stay home with the children. He was making great money in his career, and we didn’t want our children raised by anyone else.
I wanted to be the kind of mother my own mother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be. Room mom, PTA president, office volunteer. Of course, there are days when I long for some peace and a less structured life, but for the most part I have no regrets. I like the power. I want the power. And don’t think being a stay-at-home mom isn’t powerful.
I can bring a school board to its knees. I heard via the grapevine that I once made a principal cry. But I’ve never been malicious. I’m in this not for me, but for my children. I want the best for my children. I want to help them get ahead. I want them to have every opportunity.
The only drawback?
Our lives are really jam-packed. Sometimes too stressful. But then I look at the great friends we have, and our lifestyle—Christmas at Sun Valley, February at St. Barts, and Easter usually in Hawaii, while summer vacations we head to Jackson Hole.
I don’t think we ever meant to travel this much, but it’s what our group does, and the kids love being with our friends, and it’s hard staying home when you know what a fantastic time everyone else is having. Which reminds me. We were supposed to be gone this weekend, escaping for the three-day weekend to Vashon.
Sighing, I reluctantly put thoughts of relaxing on Vashon Island out of my mind. We’re here this weekend. We might as well make the most of it.
Nathan’s up and gone by the time I come downstairs in the morning. I heard him shower earlier—he must have already hit the gym—and he left a note in the kitchen saying he’s gone to have breakfast at the country club with the guys before they tee off.
With Nathan gone, I let the girls lounge in their pajamas until ten, when I insist they finally turn off the TV and computer games and get dressed if they want to go have lunch at Bellevue Square and do a little shopping.
Jemma immediately begs to go to the Cheesecake Factory, while Tori pleads for Red Robin. “It’ll probably be the Nordstrom café,” I say.
They groan.
“What’s wrong with the café?”
“Nothing,” Jemma answers unhappily, “but we always eat there, and it’s boring. I want to go somewhere fun.”
“Yeah, fun,” Tori adds, and Brooke nods.
“We’ll see,” I answer evasively, thinking I’m not about to lug our shopping bags throughout the mall. The café is close and convenient, and I can charge our lunch on my Nordstrom’s card.
On the way to the mall, we swing by the school so Jemma can check the class lists one more time before school starts on Tuesday. She heard that she’s got Eva Zinsser in her class again, and she wants to see for herself.
I park my Lexus SUV in front of the school, and the girls scramble from the car. Stepping out of the car, I pray that Paige is wrong. I can’t bear another year with the Zinssers. Jemma feels the same way. Last year was a bear, a real struggle, and I refuse to go through another school year like that.
“Paige was right,” Jemma shouts, standing in front of the window and scanning the names. “We’re in the same class again.” She turns around and groans. “Why, Mom? Why me?”
“It’ll be fine,” I say unconvincingly, hating that there are now two strikes against the new school year.
First, Jemma’s been assigned to Mrs. Osborne’s class—something I’m just dreading, as it’s rumored that Mrs. Osborne piles on the homework, although not as much as Mrs. Shipley last year. Nathan might say it’s good for the girls to have hard teachers, but he isn’t the one who helps with homework every night, and he’s not the one devoting hours to overseeing the reports and projects, either.
I’d been hoping Jemma would get Miss Tanzey for fifth grade. Miss Tanzey arrived midyear last year, replacing Mrs. Jenkins, who was going out on maternity leave, and everyone who had Miss Tanzey just loved her. Miss Tanzey didn’t assign homework during winter or spring break—not like Mrs. Osborne—and she was, by all accounts, a much easier grader, which would be so much better for Jemma, who has begun struggling in school.
It’s not that Jemma’s not bright enough, but she’s just not motivated, and last year her grades really dropped, which sent Nathan through the roof. He took Jemma’s cell phone away from her and grounded her from the computer for nearly a month, but Jemma just sulked and then used Annika’s phone behind her father’s back.
I vowed this year would be different. I vowed that we’d start school on a more positive note, but it’s hard to be as optimistic knowing that we’ve got to deal with the bizarre-o Zinssers again.
“Come on, girls, let’s go shopping.”
The rest of the weekend passes in a blur of picnics, barbecues, and swimming dates at the lake and the country club pool. Kate and Bill have us over for dinner Saturday night. Patti and Donald have a pre–Labor Day party Sunday night. Then some people I don’t know well invited us to a big shindig Monday afternoon, and I wouldn’t have gone except that Gary Locke, the former governor of Washington, was going to be there with his wife and children.
By Monday night, I’m so tired of small talk and smiling that it’s a relief to put the kids to bed.
In our bed, Nathan reaches for me in the dark and I’m about to refuse, citing extreme exhaustion, but then I remember our odd night Friday night and the tension over money. I don’t want tension over sex.
I give in to his kiss. He is such a good kisser, and as his body sinks into mine, I know that at least I’ll climax. I always do. Nathan wouldn’t have it any other way.
The morning arrives along with tears and tantrums. Tori doesn’t want her big sisters going off to school and leaving her alone. “But you’re not alone,” Brooke tells her imperiously. “You’ll be with Annika.” Which of course leads to more tears.
Brooke’s upset because her hair isn’t holding a curl.
Jemma’s upset because her hair won’t stay straight.
I’m upset because I’ve got to get ready, too, and I can’t get dressed or do my hair with everyone screaming in every upstairs bedroom.
But finally by seven forty-five we make it to the car. I’m driving the girls this morning instead of having them take the bus so I can formally introduce myself to Brooke’s and Jemma’s teachers. It’s something I’ve done every year since Jemma started kindergarten, and now it’s a tradition. I always take a little welcoming gift, too. It just helps start the year off on the right foot.
But today I also have the PTA’s Welcome Coffee, and I stack my purse on top of my binder in the backseat of the Lexus. The PTA board puts on the Welcome Coffee for all the parents every year on the first day of school, but usually only a dozen or so women attend. I’ve
never understood why more moms don’t attend. It’s an ideal chance to get to know the PTA board and to find out more about this year’s activities and available volunteer positions.
I glance at my watch, wondering where Annika is, even as I recall how several years ago I was responsible for filling all the school’s volunteer positions. That was a job. You’d think more moms would want to be involved. You’d think they’d care.
The girls are in the car, howling that we’re going to be late. I’m standing between the garage and kitchen doors, trying not to scream, and suddenly Annika arrives, sweeping into the house in a flurry of apologies. Instead of jumping on the breakfast dishes, she scoops up Tori and sits on the couch with her to watch Dora. Tori’s getting a little old for Dora the Explorer, and the kitchen needs attention, but I bite my tongue. I just want to get out of the house at this point, and time is of the essence.
By the time we reach Points Elementary, the parking lot is a zoo. Everyone has come today, and I squeeze in next to another car, hoping I’m not so close that I’ll get the Lexus’s paint chipped. I’m proud of my Lexus. I’ve had it two years, and it still looks brand new.
We hustle across the parking lot and enter one of the outside buildings where the second-grade classes are held. Brooke has one of the new teachers, a Miss Johnson, and from what I understand, Miss Johnson is young and inexperienced. I believe this is her first year teaching, although I don’t know why the school district would hire such a green teacher for Points Elementary. Living in Yarrow Point, we pay a fortune in property taxes. The girls deserve a great education, and I’m determined they’ll get that education. That’s one reason I volunteer as much as I do, and of course I’m volunteering as a room parent for Jemma’s and Brooke’s classes again.
I’ve already e-mailed both teachers, letting them know I’m available and interested in helping them out. I do this every year in August as soon as the class rosters are posted, and it works. Teachers have a lot to deal with at the beginning of the year, and they shouldn’t have to worry about managing all the parent volunteers.
In my e-mail (I saved it in my Outlook box a couple of years ago so it’s easy to resend every summer), I tell the teacher a little about myself and explain why I’m so qualified.
First, I’m experienced. I’ve done this every year since Jemma started kindergarten, and I know what needs to be done.
Second, I’m a full-time mom, and I’ve dedicated myself completely to my kids’ future.
Third, I’m committed. When I say I’ll do something, I do it.
Fourth, I’m good. Every class that has me as head room parent has a great year, guaranteed. They have the best parties, the best field trips, the best class projects for the school auction. But I don’t help just with the fun stuff. I’m there in the classroom helping out, too. I read with the children, I photocopy handouts, I sort homework, I help with bulletin boards.
In the past, teachers have always been so grateful for my assistance (well, except for Mr. Smythe, the PE teacher, but he’s not a normal teacher, he’s a retired marine), and I love making a difference in my children’s education.
It’s important that I know what they’re learning, whom they’re playing with, what’s going on at school. Nathan once said I should have become a teacher myself and brought home a paycheck since I spend so much time at school, but that’s just him teasing me. He’s proud of me, proud of all I do.
In Brooke’s first-grade class, I greet Miss Johnson, a cute young blond teacher who looks just like what she is, a corn-fed midwesterner. She lights up on hearing my name.
“Thank you so much for your e-mail,” she says warmly. “That was wonderful, and I definitely welcome all the help I can get.”
She’s going to be my kind of teacher. “You’ve got my e-mail and phone number. Call me if you need anything this week.”
I wave farewell, leave a small welcome gift on her desk, and walk with Jemma to her class. The first bell has already rung, and the second bell will ring any second.
I spot Mrs. Osborne at the front of the class, and it’s not until I’m hurrying forward that I see she’s talking to another mother, one with long loose dark brown hair, wearing jeans and flip-flops and a faded black T-shirt. Marta Zinsser.
I stiffen, my spine straightening as I glance around the room until my gaze settles on a thin girl with thick black hair cut in a chic bob, but the stylish cut does little to hide the mouth that looks too big for her face.
“Her hair’s longer,” I say to Jemma.
“It’s a good cut,” Jemma answers grudgingly.
“Kind of Katie Holmes Cruise–like.”
I give Jemma a quick kiss good-bye. “I’m just going to say hello to Mrs. Osborne and then I’m out of here. Have a good day.”
Marta leaves as I approach. She doesn’t look at me. She’s probably intimidated by me. She shouldn’t be, although I know some of the other women are. I can’t help that Nathan’s so successful.
The second bell rings, and before I can introduce myself to Mrs. Osborne, she’s politely but firmly calling the class to order. I hate interrupting her, so I hurriedly tell her my name, although it doesn’t seem to spark the recognition I’d hoped. I let her know what I said in my e-mail, that I’d be happy to be head room mother and do whatever I could to make her year the most successful it can be.
Mrs. Osborne thanks me, and I feel reassured. For a moment, I’d almost gotten the impression that I’d annoyed her somehow, but as I leave, I drop the gift I bought her—a Starbucks drink card—on her desk and head out. It’s going to be a good year, I tell myself, far better than last year.
With that thought in mind, I retrieve my phone and dial Nathan’s cell. He answers right away. “Hi, hon,” I say, “girls are settled and I’m just entering the school gym for the Welcome Coffee, and then I’m off to the gym to work out.”
“Girls okay? Teachers seem nice?”
“Everything seems great. I met both teachers. I think it’s going to be a really good year.”
“That’s great. Can’t wait to hear all about it at dinner.”
“All right, sweetheart, have a good day.”
“You too.”
I make a kiss sound into the phone and hang up. I really am very lucky.
The Welcome Coffee is in full swing when I enter the school gym. Laura and Joan, mothers of second-grade daughters, wave as I walk in. I smile back and move through the small throng until I find Patti, who happens to be standing with Kate and Monica.
“That’s a cute shirt, Taylor,” Kate says by way of greeting.
“Thank you,” I answer, leaning forward to give everybody the customary kiss-kiss.
Monica looks me up and down. “Isn’t it the one you got at the Tory Burch trunk show last spring at Nordstrom’s?”
I nod, my hair falling forward to brush my cheek. “I splurged that day, but God, her clothes were gorgeous. I couldn’t help it.”
“Well, you look positively gorgeous in the tunic,” Monica says almost enviously. “You’re so slim, you can wear everything.”
“Look who’s talking,” Patti flashes. “You’re so thin, Monica, you’re about to disappear. If you lost any more weight, you wouldn’t even be here.”
Monica shakes her head even as she tries to hide her pleased smile. Being too skinny is one of the best compliments you can be paid. “Speaking of down-to-earth,” Monica says, changing the subject as she likes to do, “I heard that Martha Stewart is about to become a neighbor. She’s apparently buying a house in Medina.”
“Not just a house,” Patti corrects, “three. They’re going to tear them down and build a big compound, kind of like what Gates did.”
“You can’t build megahouses anymore,” Kate replies firmly. “Medina’s passed a number of ordinances since Gates’s house went up.”
“I think they’re able to get around the building code, as it’s a megaestate, not a megahouse. Martha wanted to leave plenty of open land for her gardens.�
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My eyebrows lift. I hadn’t heard anything about Martha maybe moving to Medina until now. “Is she moving here with her daughter? Or a boyfriend?”
“Her daughter is grown, and her ‘best’ friend already lives here. Charles Simonyi.”
“Charles who?” I ask.
Monica sighs with exaggerated patience. “Simonyi. He was born in Hungary and became a billionaire after helping design Microsoft Word and Excel.”
Patti touches my arm. “He’s the one who spent two weeks in space with the Russian astronauts.”
I grin at Patti. “Don’t they call them cosmonauts in Russia?”
Kate frowns. As her husband is a mucky-muck at Microsoft, she often knows the inside scoop before most people. “I didn’t know he and Martha were that close.”
“Apparently they’re very close,” Monica adds in her precise know-it-all voice. “They’re building a house together.”
Kate lifts a hand to slow the zinging conversation. “I don’t think they’re building a house together. I think Martha’s just looking for a change of venue. After all her problems on the East Coast, she might be ready to start over, you know?”
We’re nodding sympathetically when Patti suddenly leans forward and whispers, “Hey. Looks like we’ve got a new daddy among us.”
“Where?” Monica demands, head swiveling around rather like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
“By the cafeteria door,” Patti answers. “Six feet, short dark hair, good build. He’s either a French doctor or a cyclist.”
Monica stares at him. She has no shame. “God, he’s gorgeous.”
“You think so?” I ask, trying to see the gorgeousness in the new dad. He’s too narrow, too lean, for my taste, but Patti’s right, he does have the hard, sinewy look of a long-distance runner or a cyclist.
Monica practically licks her lips. “Yes. Yummy.”
“I wonder what he does,” I say.
“I’ll go find out.” And Monica’s off, flipping her hair as she stalks toward him.
